


Hench

by MrProphet



Category: Thursday Next - Jasper Fforde
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 12:39:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10697199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrProphet/pseuds/MrProphet





	Hench

It was Smiley’s show really, but I’ll say this for George; he’s never been afraid to admit when he’s out of his depth. He called me up on the Footnoterphone and, once I’d finished rounding up the last of the pirates I read myself over to join him in  _Quantum of Solace_. Fortunately, the pirates, who’d broken out of Captain Blood by sailing straight on when they should have tacked, proved fairly easy to round up (the appearance of Emperor Zhark and a small flotilla of Zharkian wave shredders took the wind out of their sails and then promptly put it up them), because Smiley’s problem was much worse.

 _Quantum of Solace_  is a small book – well, a short story actually – with a single location. A tall, lean man with a cruel mouth leaned against the frame of the French windows at the back of Government House in Nassau. He tried to catch my eye, but I ignored him. Everyone at Jurisfiction – especially the women – has been warned about James Bond; not because he’s a womaniser, rather that he’s  _boring_. Give him a chance to get started and he’ll rattle on and on about his exploits and never stop. I gave him a wave, avoided eye contact and went inside.

George Smiley is as much the direct opposite of Bond as anyone could be while still being a man; small and quiet, with huge glasses and a quiet manner. He rarely said anything and when he did it was worth listening to.

“Ah, Miss Next,” he said softly. “We have a bit of a sticky situation here.”

“I thought you were good at sticky, Sir George,” I challenged. “Miss Havisham said that the character hadn’t been written that you couldn’t think your way around.”

“Miss Havisham was a very kind woman.”

“Are we thinking of the same Miss Havisham?” I wondered.

Smiley accepted this with a smile. “But these chaps aren’t what I’m used to,” he explained. “My books are always full of highly-drawn characters and complex motivations.”

“Ah,” I said, as the light dawned. “You mean they’re too crude for you?”

“Quite,” he agreed. “I keep trying to work out what they’re really after, but I’ve a horrible feeling it’s just what they say, which doesn’t leave me much to work with.”

"Alright,” I said. “I’ll have a go.”

George nodded. “Thank you, Miss Next,” he said. “They’re in the dining room.”

‘They’ were an unsightly collection of grotesques who filled the dining room from wall-to-wall. Some were tall and some were short; some broad and some thin; some were bald and most of them had scars. They were all shapes and sizes – except that while some of the women were incredibly beautiful, none of the men were less than hideous – but not one of them could have been mistaken for anything but what they were:

Henchpersons.

They were all pressing around the table, shovelling away the food as though they hadn’t eaten in weeks, and it took several minutes for most of them to notice me.

“Right,” I said. “Who’s in charge here?” Unfortunately, this proved to be an unexpectedly difficult point and set off a seemingly interminable round of discussions, arguments and frenzied negotiation.

“Never mind that then!” I yelled. “Be quiet!” At last I gave up and fired my pistol into the ceiling. That shut them up, but brought George running in.

“Please be careful,” he said. “We don’t want any readers to notice what’s happening.”

I shrugged. “Who’d notice a few extra gunshots in a James Bond story.”

“They would in this one,” he told me. “It doesn’t have any shooting in it. Fortunately, almost no-one ever reads it, so we’re probably not in any danger of getting seen.”

“I’ll be careful,” I promised. “Alright,” I went on, turning to the henchpersons, “why don’t…  _you_  tell me what this is all about?”

The henchperson I had chosen was small and squat, and of indeterminate gender. He or she looked awkward to have been chosen and ummed and stammered uselessly.

“Well, what about you?”

The second henchperson looked as though he would have slid one of his stilettos through my throat without batting an eyelid, but asked to voice the concerns which had led him to occupy a building outside his own book, he dried up.

“You?” I suggested, indicating a voluptuous blonde with a notable shortage of wardrobe; she just giggled.

“Does anyone feel like speaking for the group?” I asked, and as one they answered: “No.”

“Okay. So that’s how we do this,” I muttered. “You’re here to protest?”

“Yes!” Again they answered as one.

“Is it a pay dispute?”

“No!”

“Is it about the size of your roles within your…”

“No!”

“Is it the scars?” I asked. “Do you want to be described without the scars and the limps and that, uh, extra eyebrow you’ve got going on there?”

The man with the extra eyebrow burst into tears, but the rest of them said: “No!”

“Oh, this is going to take a long time,” I sighed.

*

“Let’s recap,” I suggested, some four hours later. “You want: names and at least one line of non-villainous dialogue in every significant appearance.”

“Yes!”

“Recognition of the family ties, friendships outside the criminal fraternity, charitable work and hobbies within the main or subtext of each book in which you appear.”

“Yes!”

“Recognition of the moral abhorrence of killing henchpersons.”

“Hell, yes!”

“At least one romantic interest, implied or explicit, for every five appearances.”

This time they didn’t say anything, they just hooted wildly.

“And pay scales equivalent to those received by heroic red shirts in the same work.” They agreed to that one as well, but I think that was pretty much symbolic. It was the perks they were after.

I agreed to talk to the Council of Genres and sent them all packing back to their own books. There were more negotiations, but to my surprise the Council more or less accepted everything they asked for.

And that was how I made my contribution to the post-modern deconstruction of the action genre.


End file.
